


a london particular

by brokendrums



Series: rising water [3]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Kid Fic, Multi, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-06 00:46:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16821769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokendrums/pseuds/brokendrums
Summary: Christmas 1945, the first since Harry’s returned home and it’s a little harder to adjust than expected.





	a london particular

**Author's Note:**

> a london particular (noun): an extremely thick fog
> 
> Continuation of alive in spite of rising water. Fair warning that Harry and Niall are working through a few minor symptoms of PTSD but nothing too graphic. 
> 
> This was purely self indulgent. Forgive the melodrama. Happy holidays! *champagne pop*

Niall’s carefully cutting a strip of newspaper when the living room door creaks. He glances up just in time to see a mop of blonde hair appear around the side of the door. 

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?” Niall asks, keeping his voice gentle. He has the wireless on low beside him just to fill the silence and it crackles now and then, a buzz of words slurring together before it snaps back with sharp clarity. 

Saoirse’s mouth turns down, one tiny fist coming up to rub at her eye and then the rest of her body tumbles through the door. “Bad dream.”

Niall frowns, setting down the sharp scissors. He pats at his knee. “C’mere then.”

Saoirse trails into the living room, her night-dress too long around her ankles. It’s an old one of Taylor’s -- one of her more modest ones that she rarely ever wore -- trimmed and pinned to fit a five year old. It hasn’t really worked, the hem folded enough that it could fit her until she’s ten. 

Saoirse climbs up, a sleepy fist whacking Niall in the stomach as she tries to get comfortable. Niall helps her, heaving her onto his lap. She’s getting too big to do this, his knees twinging accordingly as she rocks against him.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Niall asks and Saoirse shakes her head, her bottom lip caught in between her teeth. It’s something that Harry does when he’s tired and upset, Niall hadn’t thought she would’ve picked that up from him so soon. 

Niall smooths the hair away from her forehead. She’s a little pink, her eyes glassy but she’s calming down. Niall presses his lips quickly to her temple and gives her a squeeze. She presses back into his chest and Niall’s reminded of how young she is, despite how grown up she tries to act.

“Okay,” he says gently. “Do you want to help me with these decorations?”

She nods, blinking to waken herself up more. Niall can hear a drag in her breath, something groggy in her chest and he hopes it won’t develop any further. He doesn’t want her sick over Christmas, Harry sure to catch it too.

“And then we’ll go back to bed,” Niall reminds her. Taylor will kill him if she’s too tired for school tomorrow.

“Okay,” she says quietly, reaching for the scissors with a quick hand. 

Niall snorts, holding them away from her. She pouts, her eyes brightening with mischief. “You can stick to colouring.”

“Niall,” she whines but accepts the red crayon Niall thrusts into her hands instead.

They’re half way through colouring in the strips of newspaper when the front door opens with a gust of chilly air. It’s quiet for a moment, Saoirse going tense in Niall’s lap and then Harry’s hushed voice as he turns the corner into the living room. 

He stops short at the doorway, eyes flicking down to Saoirse before he grins. “Oh, so this is what you get up to when we’re out?”

Niall hears Taylor go straight up the stairs, the floorboards creaking under her heels. Saoirse giggles, lifting a hand to her mouth as Harry comes further into the room. 

He’s wearing his thick coat and he’s got a bundle of newspaper under his arm that he drops on the table beside Niall. It smells heavenly, grease and vinegar seeping out across yesterday’s headlines. 

“What are you doing back so early?” Niall asks. It’s hardly after ten. 

Harry unwinds his scarf, pulling a face as he does. “Taylor wasn’t feeling well,” he mutters before reaching for Saoirse, tickling under her chin. 

She shrieks, her bony elbow digging into Niall’s side. He glares at Harry but Harry’s too busy laughing to notice. “Shouldn’t you be in bed, missy?” Harry sing-songs, tickling under her arms. Saoirse laughs brightly again, digging her heels into Niall’s knee and trying to burrow under his arm to get away from Harry. 

“Is she alright?” Niall asks, dodging being whacked across the face by Saoirse’s flailing limbs. She thumps him in the belly again and Niall suppresses a groan under a cough. 

Harry nods, pulling Saoirse up by the armpits. Niall breathes a sigh of relief that he can move his legs again. 

“Mr Young’s shop was just about to close but we were able to get his last fish,” Harry says, Saoirse clinging to his shoulders as he swings her round. Niall’s mildly worried he’ll send her flying into the lampshade on the ceiling. “And what do we say to that, Saoirse?”

Saoirse shrieks with laughter as Harry spins her again. “Please and thank you?”

Harry sighs as if he’s put out. “No,” Harry says but his lips are curling up into a delighted smile. “Well, yes. But we also say,” he pauses for effect, dipping Saoirse down until her legs are dangling an inch above the floorboards. “Dance for your daddy,” he starts to sing lowly. Saoirse shrieks again when he pulls her up, her ponytail bobbing through the air as Harry pushes her into the air above his head. 

“Dance for your daddy,” she sings back to him, her eyes big and bright as she looks down at him. 

“My little lassie,” Harry drops her onto the floor and she staggers slightly, Harry gripping her by the hands. He spins her under his arm as if they’re in the middle of the ballroom. Niall’s watched him twirl Taylor across many a ballroom, his feet well practised. Harry catches Niall’s eye, his grin wide. 

“You shall have a fishy,” Harry prompts her. 

Saoirse’s cheeks have gone red, her eyes bright as she dances around Harry’s feet. “On a little dishy,” Saoirse calls back, barely keeping the tune. 

Harry’s face is pink too, looking ridiculous as his coat half hangs off him and the scarf trails across the carpet behind him like a tail. 

“When the boat comes in,” they chorus together in a flourish. 

Niall claps for them, bending down to brush his mouth across Saoirse’s warm face. She dodges him, pulling at Harry’s hands to dance again. He glances up, shares a guilty grin with Harry. She’s wide awake -- Taylor will kill them.

He brushes his mouth across Harry’s too, inhaling the scent of smoke and alcohol. Harry looks a bit bashful when he pulls back, apples of his cheeks bright. 

“I’ll be down in a minute,” Niall tells them. “Save me some of that fishy.”

“Only if you dance for it,” Harry teases. Saoirse laughs brightly and Niall has no doubt there’re plans forming in her head. 

It’s quieter in the hallway and Niall closes the door to the living room as Harry and Saoirse start up their song again. 

“Taylor?” Niall calls when he gets to the top of the stairs. The door to Saoirse’s room is open and dark but their door just beside it is ajar, dim yellow light escaping through it. 

“Hey,” he says gently when he steps into the room. He can still hear Harry and Saoirse clattering about downstairs and he closes the door against it so it’s muffled. “Are you okay?”

Taylor’s curled on the bed, her coat splaying out behind her. “I’m fine,” she murmurs, still keeping her back to him. Niall creeps to the side of the bed, peering over to look at her pale face in the low light. She blinks up at him, her red lipstick shockingly dark on her mouth. “Honest.”

“What’s the matter?” Niall asks her, kneeling up onto the bed. The frame creaks, protesting as always. Niall had to nail another board under the mattress when Harry came back and there was three in the bed again.

“Just didn’t feel the best in the club,” Taylor tells him, sitting up. Her skirt rustles -- something poofy and ugly that the club gave her extra rations to make. It’s supposed to be the new trendy style but Niall doesn’t see how it’ll take off when the majority of families can’t make ends meet, never mind barter for extravagant dresses. Niall tries to find her knee under all the crinoline and tulle.

“Anything I can do to make it better?” Niall asks gently. Taylor rarely gets sick -- it’s usually Harry and his hacking cough or Niall and his dodgy knees. Sometimes, on rare days, Taylor will sigh into one of their shoulders and ask them to rub at her tummy, spooned up behind her in bed with the curtains closed but Niall can’t remember the last time she’s asked him to do that. 

Niall shuffles up the bed, pulls her against his chest. She smiles, her lips thin. “What are you doing?” 

“Ssh,” Niall hushes her, tugging her down so they can settle on the pillows. Niall tucks his chin over her shoulder, nosing her hair out the way and slides his hand over her tummy. 

He can hear her breathing, the way it hitches slightly, pauses and then lets go all at once. Niall swirls his fingers over the waistband of the skirt, feels the soft silk of her blouse where it’s tucked in and then flattens his palm against her stomach, pressing it gently against her as he rubs a circle. 

“Niall,” Taylor whispers, her voice gone tight and hoarse. Niall hums, opening his eyes. 

She stares back at him, her expression broken.

“Hey,” Niall says, pulling her tighter in the hug. He lifts the hand from her tummy to her jaw so she can’t look away. “What’s wrong?” 

She shakes her head, her eyes closing. “It’s nothing.” 

“Taylor,” Niall murmurs, leaning in to brush a kiss against her red lipstick. She shakes her head again, takes a shuddering breath. 

“Honestly. I’m fine,” Taylor tells him, her tone turning cooler. “Now, go put Saoirse to bed.” The _or else_ goes unsaid.

Niall’s hesitant to leave her like this but he’s not sure what else he can do. Taylor offers him a wan smile and settles back into the pillows. 

“We won’t be long up,” Niall tells her, thinking of Harry downstairs and his tipsy, warm smile. “Or.” 

Taylor opens her eyes again, glancing over at him. She looks softer in the dim light. 

“Or, we could sleep downstairs if you’d prefer?” 

Taylor’s face is blank and for a gut-wrenching moment, Niall wonders if she’s going to accept but then she snorts, shaking her head. “Of course not. I’m just tired.”

Niall nods and slips out of the room, leaving her to it. 

Harry and Saoirse are still floundering about the living room when Niall comes back down. Harry glances up when he comes in, his expression worried. 

“Bedtime,” Niall tells Saoirse, watching as her face falls. 

“But, Niall!” she starts to protest loudly, her hands curling into the lapels of Harry’s coat. 

“Ten minutes,” Niall bargains with her, going over to the table again. She has them wrapped around her little finger. He turns the wireless down another notch and reaches for the chips. 

They eat out of the newspaper, Saoirse stealing a few with a bright grin. Niall blows on each chip, passing them into Saoirse’s grabbing fingers one by one. They’re still hot and Harry looks smug as he divides the fish in two for them to share. 

“I had a bad dream,” Saoirse tells Harry. She’s tucked between them on the sofa, Niall and Harry passing food between them over her fidgeting hands. 

“Oh, yeah?” Harry says, cocking his head to the side to listen to her. Saoirse nods, her eyes wary. “What happened, sweetheart?”

“The house fell down,” Saoirse says easily. Niall listens, picking through the chips at the bottom of the newspaper. His fingers are stained black from the ink and grease. It’s probably bad for them but he feels warm from the inside out, his belly full and heavy. 

Harry hums, encouraging her to continue. It stings a little bit as she natters away to him, explaining the confusing twists and turns of her dream easily when she’d been so quiet about it earlier. But Niall can’t blame her -- he finds it easier to open up to Harry too, they all do.

“But the house didn’t fall down,” Harry’s reminding her, the final chip held poised between his fingers. Saoirse’s watching it, her eyes drooping. Harry reaches behind them to knock at the wall. “See?”

Saoirse grins, twisting between them to knock on the wall too. Harry laughs, knocking again. Saoirse bangs her fist against the wallpaper. Harry only knocks back harder. 

“Right,” Niall chastises, thinking of Taylor upstairs. “You’ll wake the neighbours.”

Harry pouts at him, tugging Saoirse back down into the cushions between them. “Nightmares are okay, you know,” Harry whispers. Niall glances over at them, his eyes finding the soft expression on Harry’s face. “Big boys and girls have them too.”

“Really?” Saoirse asks, twisting at the soggy newspaper. Niall curls his fingers into his palms to stop from taking it off her. 

“Uh huh,” Harry says, his voice dropping low. “Sometimes-- sometimes I have them.”

Saoirse gasps, her eyes widening as she looks up at him. Niall swallows. Harry hasn’t had a nightmare in a while but when he does, they’re horrible. Niall hates waking up to his shakes, the way he twists in the bed between him and Taylor. There’s still a lot that Harry doesn’t like to talk about -- his time away from Niall during the war, the weeks that everyone thought he was missing. There’s things Niall doesn’t like talking about either but it seems like Harry’s been through much worse. 

It’s scary -- watching the pent up frustration and fear fight its way out of Harry’s body when he’s most vulnerable, writhing in bed, eyelids fluttering and jaw clenched. 

“And it’s okay to be scared,” Harry says softly, cuddling Saoirse into his chest. “It’s okay if they make you cry.”

Niall glances at Harry again, sees how Harry is refusing to look up at him. He’s woken up to Harry’s broken sobs more than once but Harry doesn’t like to dwell on it, doesn’t want to speak about it afterwards. 

“Because they’re not real,” Harry reminds her. “And nothing will ever hurt you. I’ll never let that happen. Okay? I promise, okay?”

“Okay,” Saoirse whispers into his neck, her hand curling in his collar. 

Harry smiles, kissing her temple. “Good girl. Now, bedtime.”

Saoirse groans but it peters out into a yawn, her face scrunching up as she tries to fight it. Harry snuffles a laugh into her hair. 

“Night night,” Niall whispers to her as Harry gets to his feet. She yawns in his face, managing to press her lips against his cheek. 

It’s quiet when they’ve gone, the faint creak of the floorboards upstairs, the murmur of Harry singing to her. 

Niall tidies up in the meantime to keep busy. There’s something niggling at him, something deep down in his gut that he can’t place. Taylor’s expression lingering at the back of his mind as he gathers all the Christmas decorations into a pile at the end of the kitchen table. 

“Hey,” Harry says, appearing behind him the kitchen doorway. 

Niall glances over his shoulder. “She go down okay?” 

“Like a light,” Harry says agreeably. He pushes himself off the door jamb, comes to a stop in front of Niall. “You alright?” 

Niall nods distractedly. He can feel Harry’s warm breath on his lips and when he glances up, Harry’s staring at his mouth. 

“Did you check on Taylor?” Niall asks him, his head inching closer to Harry’s.

Harry hums. “Asleep in her skirt.” 

Niall laughs, his mouth brushing against Harry’s bottom lip. 

“We could still go out, you know.” Harry murmurs, his hand coming to rest on Niall’s hip. 

Niall can feel the heat of it through the material of his shirt. “Oh, yes. The night is still young.”

Harry snorts, glancing at his watch and then a serious suggestion. “The Legion will still be open.”

Niall rolls his eyes. “Why would I want to go there?” 

Harry pulls back, his face defensive. “I’ll get you down there at some point, you know. You can’t resist me forever.”

“You know you won’t,” Niall says, reaching for him. “Now. Come here.”

Harry kisses him up against the sink for a while, his hands firm on Niall’s hips and his lips slow. There’s no rush, just the two of them getting their fill. 

Sometimes it feels like there isn’t that much time for just the two of them lately. And Niall’s missed this -- missed Harry heavy and broad against his front, the familiar way his mouth moves against his, the sure way Harry holds his hip or his chin. Niall loves raking his hands through his hair, feeling out the heat of his chest and his arms, the way he’s just an inch or so taller than him. 

Harry pulls away from him with a smile, his mouth red and wet. 

“We can have a drink here,” Niall offers him, Harry’s eyes softening. 

Niall probably shouldn’t, he has work early in the morning but having Harry slow and sleepy-drunk against him is too alluring. 

Harry pours them a few inches of whiskey and they settle in the living room, Harry turning up the volume of the wireless slightly. 

“She won’t wake up,” Harry murmurs when Niall goes to protest. Niall isn’t sure which of the two girls upstairs he’s talking about but doesn’t have time to ask as Harry stops in front of his knees looking at him expectantly. 

Niall grins at him, moving his hand off his lap. 

Harry smiles back, his eyes heavy as he slides into his lap, a knee on either side of Niall’s thighs. 

“Comfy,” Harry says, fighting a grin as he straddles Niall’s lap. Niall laughs softly, spreading his free hand across the breadth of Harry’s thigh. It feels warm through the fabric of his trousers, the muscle thick and strong. 

He’s had his mouth there, felt the strength of Harry’s legs against his face, over his shoulder, moving under him but this is the way he likes it best. Harry’s heavy but the weight is reassuring, nearly comforting as he presses Niall back into the cushions of the sofa. 

Niall takes a sip of the whiskey, feeling it burn down his throat. It’s cheap. Harry had got it on the black market somewhere where you can’t afford to be choosey. 

They talk for a while, their voices low. Harry sinks down further against Niall’s legs as they make their way through the drink. It’s intense, sitting this way. Niall can’t see much of the rest of the living room over his shoulder and Harry smells of sweat and ink and smoke. 

“Taylor sang this tonight,” Harry murmurs when a new song comes onto the wireless. Niall slides his hand from where it’s settled against Harry’s knee, runs his thumb up the inseam of his trousers. He pulls Harry’s shirt from his waistband and presses his fingertips against the warm skin at the small of his back. “She always looks so lovely on stage. All that light on her.” 

Niall hums in agreement. He’s taken a job with the Post Office and Harry’s pushing paper down at his old publisher’s, his book sitting stale in their typewriter for the time being, so Taylor can still perform under ENSA. Lately, Harry’s been going with her whilst Niall stays home with Saoirse. Normally, they come home drunk on wine, loose and giggly as they fall into bed beside him. It’s one of the reasons Niall found it so strange they were home so early tonight. 

Harry’s humming along to the song on the wireless when Niall kisses him again, their mouths hot and numb from the alcohol. Harry melts against him, his glass landing on the table beside the lamp with a thud as he reaches to kiss him back. 

“Miss going out with you,” Niall tells him, tasting the whiskey on his tongue. Harry groans in agreement, grinding down into Niall’s lap. 

They’ve both been half-hard the entire time, Harry a warm weight over Niall’s lap as they drank. It doesn’t take long for Niall to rock up against him, searching for his own friction.

“I miss seeing you dance with her,” Harry tells him, his breath hot at Niall’s ear. “Miss watching you two together. Pretending to look jealous at the side of the dance floor instead of showing everyone how much it turns me on.”

Niall gasps, rolling his hips up again. He clutches at Harry’s shoulder, pulling him down roughly in counterpoint. “You can see us together all the time. Wa--watch us.”

Harry groans, reaching for the button of Niall’s trousers. 

They shouldn’t do this here, just in case Saoirse somehow manages to find her way downstairs again. It’s been harder now that she can get up and about by herself but they’ve managed to coerce her back to bed before she sees anything too traumatic in the past. 

But Harry licks at the shell of Niall’s ear and all thoughts of modesty fly out of Niall’s head. He rucks up Harry’s shirt at his back, tucking his fingers into the gaping back of his waistband. He can feel the worn material of his underwear, a little frayed and rough around the elastic. 

“Come on,” Niall urges him up onto his knees. Harry complies, his breath gone unsteady. He places his hands on Niall’s shoulders, pressing down on him as Niall undos his fly. Niall pulls his trousers and pants down as far as they’ll go, listening to Harry’s moans and gasps as he wraps his fingers around his dick. He’s hard, going redder and redder. Niall squeezes gently, teasing him until pre-come dribbles over his fist. 

“Niall,” Harry warns, collapsing down into Niall’s lap, his thighs quivering. “I want to suck you.”

“I want to kiss you,” Niall protests but Harry’s already sliding off his lap, tugging at the material of his trousers. Niall lifts his hips, shivering at the rough material of the cushions on the bare skin of his arse. 

Harry sucks him down quickly, not wasting any time. Niall groans, bites at his wrist to stop being too loud. The wireless has gone off -- midnight already -- and the room is filled with a soft static. They sound all the louder now, Niall’s breathing whooshing in and out of his mouth, the wet sounds of Harry licking and sucking. 

Niall pushes his hand into Harry’s hair, pulling where his fringe has started to grow longer. He pulls his hair back, watches as Harry raises his eyes to meet his gaze. 

“I fucking love you,” Niall tells him, staring into his watering eyes. Harry tries to smile, his tongue laving at the underside of his cock. Niall groans again, pulling him up off his dick by his hair. 

Harry breathes wetly at the crease of his groin for a moment before he turns his head, nosing further into the space between his thigh. “Harry,” Niall sighs, his hand finding his hair again. 

Harry hushes him, his hand coming to the back of his sweaty knee. “ _Please_ , let me.”

“Yes,” Niall answers immediately. “Yes, yes.”

They don’t do this all too much -- something Taylor finds strange when she’s watching them together. Otherwise, the don’t have the time. 

Harry pulls him down until Niall’s head is pillowed in the seat of the sofa, his arse nearly hanging over the edge. The first swipe of Harry’s tongue over his hole makes him jerk up, his hand flying to his cock. 

“Oh,” Niall groans. 

Harry groans back, his mouth open at Niall’s arse. “You fucking love this.”

Niall rolls his hips, shoving his arse back towards Harry’s mouth. Harry laughs against his skin and it makes Niall jump again, every tiny little thing feeling ten times more amplified. Niall shuts his eyes, lets his mind race behind his eyelids. He imagines Harry’s tongue, pink and wet against the tight crease of his arse. He’s only seen Harry go down on Taylor before, his mouth red and shining, his gaze heavy and hooded. 

Harry fucking loves this too. 

Everything feels warm and wet, Harry’s huge palms damp at his thighs where he’s pushing them apart. He feels bared open, one knee hovering in the air, the other one over Harry’s shoulder. He’s sweating into the arm of Harry’s shirt but he doesn’t care, his hands scrunching and pulling at his hair so Harry keeps his mouth moving, hot and wet at his hole. 

“Please,” Niall begs. “There. Please.”

Harry swirls his tongue, marking different shapes against Niall’s arse. He moves one of his hands slowly, a thumb pressing against his perineum firmly. Niall jumps again, tugging his hand slowly up the length of his swollen dick. The head is slippery wet but he doesn’t play with it yet, dragging it out until he can’t bear it anymore. 

Harry’s thumb dips lower, the pressure relentless. He strokes him again, his tongue pointed at his hole. Niall cups the head of his dick, pushing his palm against the crown as Harry tucks his thumb into his rim. 

“Fucking Christ,” Niall gasps, his vision blurring so much he has to close his eyes again. Harry bites at his thigh, his thumb pushing in a centimetre or two. To Niall, it feels like inches, feet, miles. It feels like every square of his skin is on fire and Harry keeps finding new places to touch him, the pad of his thumb pressing up against the skin inside. He’s done this before, felt up inside Taylor and the hot heat of Harry’s hole. He knows what it feels like, Harry’s body clutching and clamping around him. 

Niall’s free hand flutters in the air for a moment, wanting for something to hold onto. He drags it over his mouth, bites on a knuckle. 

Niall pulls him closer, his foot hooked around his back. “Harry,” he moans, loud enough to wake up Taylor. “HarryHarry.”

Every muscle in his body squeezes down at once, his orgasm rocketing out through his pelvis. He spills onto his stomach, his palm smearing it over his skin as his body jerks, his back arching. 

Harry’s breathing hard, his shoulders rising so Niall’s leg jerks up too. His thumb is still inside him, hardly moving. 

“Niall,” Harry croaks, his breath impossibly warm. Niall shivers, his body jerking and Harry presses his tongue to his hole again, soft and gentle as he licks up below his balls, around onto his groin. 

Niall can’t catch his breath, his hand jerking down until it’s pressed flat against Harry’s forehead. 

Harry hushes him again, his tongue flat against the base of his cock. “I have you. Gentle, gentle.”

Niall breathes out through his nose, tries to calm himself down. He still feels too hot, too shaky for this. 

Harry mouths up the length of his dick, his tongue reaching up to lick up the come splattered on his hip. Niall groans, the rush of blood through his body painful. 

Harry licks his way up his abdomen and chest, cleaning him all up. He pushes his shirt away to lick at his nipples, sucking one into his hot mouth. 

Niall bucks at that, the sensitive head of his dick nudging against Harry’s fierce erection. Harry stutters, his breath bouncing back off the wet peak of Niall’s nipple. Harry kisses at his ribs, rubs his nose down over his hip again before he kneels up, climbing back into Niall’s lap. 

“Now, you can kiss me,” Harry tells him, his grin smug. Niall stares at him, at his pink cheeks and his impossibly red mouth. He looks out of his mind with lust, his pupils blown wide. He’s too heavy on Niall’s shaky thighs but he grips at the bare skin of Harry’s hip, holding onto him. 

“Come here,” he says, his voice nearly gone. Harry grins at him, melting against his chest and opening his mouth in a kiss. 

Niall sucks at his tongue until it tastes of nothing, Harry groaning and rocking against him. He could do this all night, kissing the taste of himself away. 

“Love you,” Niall whispers, his hand squirrelling down between them to tug Harry off. Harry gasps, burying his head in Niall’s neck and biting down as Niall coaxes his own orgasm out of him. 

After, Harry lies against him until he catches his breath. Niall is on the brink of sleep, the whiskey catching up to him. He feels warm from the inside out. 

He makes Harry drink a glass of water before they head to bed, his eyes drooping and his hands clingy. They make it upstairs, naked from the waist down and climb into bed. Taylor’s still asleep, her skirt poofed up around her waist where she’s rolled over onto her side. 

“Should we undress her?” Harry asks, muffling a yawn into the pillow. He curls onto his side, his arm lifting for Niall. 

Niall shakes his head, sliding closer to Harry so he can hug around him. Harry wriggles closer, always clingy after a particularly good orgasm.

“Let her sleep,” Niall whispers, kissing Harry’s cheek. 

Harry sighs, hugging him tighter. “Sleep well.”

*

He leaves early the next morning, Harry stirring long enough to roll over and press up against Taylor’s back. 

They’d slept pressed together the whole night, sharing breath and half the mattress. 

Niall stands at the foot of the bed and watches them for a moment before he has to go, pulling on his stiff uniform. 

Harry’s face is half hidden in Taylor’s hair, his eyelashes fluttering. Taylor’s is set into a frown. Niall pulls the blankets up over them properly, tucking them in under where Taylor’s curled into a protective ball, like how the cats used to sleep together in front of the fire. 

Saoirse is still asleep, her arm hanging out from below the edge of her blanket. He eats a slice of bread, just on the edge of stale and heads out into the morning. 

He has to pause for a moment on the front step, blinking, his sight completely obliterated by the thick, dense smog that’s sunk over the city during the night. It’s a murky grey colour, tinged with a sickly green as he walks to the end of the path. The gate creaks as he steps onto the street outside, frost grizzled into the hinges. 

He’s not used to this -- still after all these years living in London. Back home, in Ireland, the fog hangs low and white over the fields but nothing as dense and putrid as this. It feels like it clings to him as he walks, enveloping around him as he edges his way down the road towards work.

He’s being cautious, one step in front of the other and the milkman emerges out of nowhere, both of them jumping when they see each other. 

“Morning,” Niall says to him. “Sorry, excuse me.”

“That’s alright,” the milkman grins at him, his crate weighing him down. “It’s a real pea-souper, this one.”

Work is busy, the onslaught of post and telegrams especially for Christmas. People seem to be making best of the paper shortage, envelopes made up of last week’s newspaper. His fingers are worn sore and ink stained by the time he’s finished.

He’s reaching for his coat when Mr James appears. 

“Horan,” he says, his tone terse. His collar is always too tight, the skin of his neck rolling slightly over. 

Niall can’t stop staring at it. He glances up to his face when Mr James clears his throat.

“You’ll stay on a few more hours?”

There’s not much room for answering. Niall nods, throws his coat back over the hook. He can’t complain too much -- God knows, they need the money. Niall thinks of the biscuit tin on top of the fire and how there never seems to be enough no matter how many notes he stuffs in. 

It’s dark by the time he gets out, the fog making everything worse. It hasn’t lifted through the day, police using flares at the end of each street to help everyone get home. 

He smells of coal and fog when he finally makes it, the smell intense now that he’s closed off from outside. Their little hallway is in darkness but light leaches out from under the crooked door letting him know that everyone else is still there. He shivers from the cold as he unwinds the scarf from around his neck and shakes out his hair. 

“Hello,” Niall calls as he wedges the door open. 

“Niall!” Saoirse calls. She’s sitting on the floor in front of the fire, the side of her face illuminated by the glow. In front of her is a piece of newspaper spread out like a tablecloth and then her Teddy bear, the ear half chewed off and the stuffing spilling out. 

“Hello, little bird,” Niall says, ruffling her hair and only half paying attention as she babbles to Mr Bear. Taylor is in the kitchen, stooped over the tin tub, scrubbing at something inside the water. What he can see of her face is screwed into a tense frown, the rest of her hair falling across her cheek.

“Hey,” he says gently, leaving Saoirse in front of the fire. “What’s going on?”

Taylor looks up, her shoulder rising with how out of breath she is. She looks angry and Niall pauses, cycling back through this morning and the previous night to think if he’s forgotten to do something important. “I did a few hours of overtime,” Niall tells her quietly. 

Her shoulders slump, nodding and Niall can tell that’s not what’s irritating her. 

Niall steps further into the kitchen and bends down in front of the tin bath. She has a shirt crumpled against the washboard, her fingers red and pruning in its folds. Niall reaches for Taylor’s forearm and edges her hand out of the water, his fingers stroking across the delicate skin on the inside of her wrist. 

“I sent Harry out to get things for the dinner,” Taylor murmurs, keeping her voice low so Saoirse won’t overhear. Niall feels his forehead crease. “He hasn’t came back.”

“He’ll be back,” Niall says, squeezing her hand. He tugs on it, urging her into his arms. She goes stiff, resisting. 

Niall clears his throat. “It’s not like before. It’s --” Niall hesitates. Safe is a stupid word. Especially with the weather at the minute but he doesn’t like to see Taylor worry. The war is supposed to be over, she’s not meant to be terrified every moment like before. “I’m sure he’ll be home soon. The queue down the butcher must be long, that’s all.”

Taylor’s eyes flick up and then her hand is wrenching away and she’s on her feet, her back turned to Niall so he can’t see her expression. 

They both know he’s not in line for the butcher.

Still, Niall stares at her, a little bit at odds as to what to do. His fingers dip into the cold water, his work shirt floating on the surface.

“Niall!” Saoirse chirps, stumbling into the kitchen. She shoves a chipped teacup at him. “Do you want some tea? Me and Mr Bear decided to have some tea because we’re very hungry and we haven’t had supper yet.”

Niall glances up at Taylor and can see how tense her shoulders are, her hands tucked up in front of her face so he can just see the point of her elbows, the skin there red and cracked. 

“Mmmm,” Niall hums, taking the cup and miming drinking from it. Saoirse watches him, her blue eyes following his every move. It’s empty and a little bit dusty. “Lovely, pet. That was lovely. Just as good as Auntie Taylor’s.”

Niall gets to his feet as she dawdles off looking pleased with herself. 

“I’ll find him,” Niall tells Taylor, settling a palm onto her shoulder. She turns her head and Niall can see how she’s biting her lip and trying not to cry. “Hey, now. Come here.”

Taylor turns into his chest, sniffing roughly into his coat. Niall bites down his concern for her -- she normally doesn’t get so upset so easily. 

“It’s alright,” he says, smoothing his hand across her forehead so he can see her without all her hair obscuring her eyes. “He’ll be alright. He’ll not have gone too far.”

Taylor huffs a breath, her lips pressing together. Niall frowns at her. She doesn’t look mollified by his reassurances so he just presses his mouth to her temple, feeling how warm she is before he walks back out into the cold 

Most of the local shops have closed already and they’ll be hard pressed to find anywhere to get something for the dinner at this time.

It doesn’t take Niall that long to make his way down to the Legion, just a few minutes longer with the fog and the dark. He’s never been in himself, just walked the length of the road with Harry sometimes. His fingers are numb by the time he’s pressing his hand to the chipped wooden door. 

Inside isn’t too bright, the lamps along the wall yellowing. The room is large, scattered tables across the grubby floor. Niall wasn’t sure what he was expecting but it jars a little bit, the emptiness of it, the quiet. 

“Niall!” Harry crows, from his spot precariously perched on a stool. Niall’s head snaps towards him, sees the way he’s tilting slightly. 

The barman raises his eyebrows when Niall steps towards him. It’s warm inside. The smell of damp and stale beer more obvious with the lack of other people filling the space.

“Military only,” the barman says, his shoulders rounding slightly. He doesn’t look too intimidating but Niall still feels hot behind his neck at being told off. 

“Hey,” Harry says, pouting. “Niall was very brave in the war.” His mouth turns into a grimace but his voice is full of alcohol soaked pride. “Saved my life, didn’t you?”

The barman raises his eyebrows again, his eyes sliding over Niall’s face before he goes back to polishing some glasses. 

Niall steps towards Harry, sees the grimy glass in front of him half full. “How long have you been here?”

“Just called in for one,” Harry tells him, his voice slurring only a little. He smiles at him widely, his mouth wet from saliva. His eyes are sad though, glassy and haunted looking. 

“Think you’ve had more than one,” Niall tells him gently. “What’s happened?”

Harry’s mouth thins and he blinks a few times, reaching for his glass. Niall beats him to it and gently pries it out of his hand. 

“Had a bad day,” he says, his mouth sealing up tight afterwards. He hums, glancing away as if he can deflect the question. “What are _you_ doing here? You never want to come here.”

Niall stares at him. There’s something unnerving in the vacant look in Harry’s expression. He’s seen it a few times -- normally after a particularly bad nightmare or whenever something jogs his memory. 

“Do you want to tell me about it?” Niall tries and Harry snorts, his hand going for the glass again. Niall lifts it away from him, ignoring his pout. He drains the glass himself, the cheap whiskey burning down his throat and Harry groans, his forehead furrowing. 

“That wasn’t very fair, Niall, I paid for that.”

The barman snorts and Harry’s mouth twists up into a grin. “Well,” he corrects himself, his body listing slightly to the side. Niall reaches out to steady him with a hand to the elbow. “It’s on my tab.”

“Come on, we need to get you home. And we need to find something for the tea.”

Harry groans pitifully, props his head up with the flat of his hand pressed against his face. “ _I_ was meant to get something for the tea.”

Niall glances up at the barman, conscious of his eyes on the pair of them. They’re the only noise in the club and Niall’s sure that their conversation is carrying. 

For once in his life, he wished that Harry would drink in one of the bars that Niall normally went to -- busy enough for people to mind their own business, barmen friends with Niall enough to send someone up to the house when Harry’s getting himself into a state.

“Yes,” Niall agrees. There’s a thread of irritation unravelling in his belly, dulled slightly by how sorry Harry looks. “Come on. It’s nearly the baby’s bedtime.”

Harry moans again, his head sliding down his bicep into the crook of his elbow. His lips are pressed to the sticky bar, his eyes clamped shut. He’s a little sweaty, his forehead clammy when Niall presses his knuckles to it. 

Niall takes a furtive glance around the bar before he leans in to whisper close to him. “Come on, H. Let me take you home.”

“Taylor’s going to be annoyed at me,” Harry mumbles, his lips moving against the dull counter. Niall’s mouth curls in revulsion. “She’s going to shout at me about all the queueing she has to do at the greengrocers.”

Niall smiles in spite of the irritation. “She won’t. She’ll just be glad to have you home.”

Harry blows out a breath, his mouth on the bar again when the barman comes back, a tin of Spam sliding into the space between them. Niall looks at it and then at the barman. 

“Tom,” Harry slurs, stumbling to his feet. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Tom says, glancing away quickly and then grabbing a glass to rub at to busy himself. Niall doesn’t know what to say, the tin at Harry’s elbow. 

“I’ll have to give you --” Harry says, pulling his ration book from his pocket. He starts flicking through the pages, his fingers clumsy as he starts to tear a coupon from the booklet. 

“Harry,” Tom says sharply. “Get home with you, now. Go on.”

Harry bites his lip, considering it. “You have your own family,” Harry says after a moment. Niall wonders how well he knows these people in the sparse bar around him. 

Tom levels him with a look, nudging the tin towards Niall with the end of the glass. “And they’re a terror when they go to bed hungry. See you tomorrow.”

Harry snaps his mouth shut, glancing guiltily at Niall. Niall pockets the tin, smiles at Tom with thanks before taking Harry by the elbow and walking him to the door. He doesn’t care who sees them. 

They’re nearly home before Harry speaks, half a pace behind him and breathing hard to keep up. Niall can hardly see him in the dark, his fingers curling tighter into the material of his coat. “Niall --?”

“Tomorrow?” Niall asks, too sharp. He needs to get it out before he has to go back into the house and act as mediator for when Taylor wants to argue with Harry instead. “How often are you there, Harry?”

Harry’s starting to properly lag behind, Niall nearly dragging him up the street. He digs his fingernails into the worn wool of Harry’s coat. 

“Only bad days,” Harry promises him and it’s nearly shocking how much it reminds him of Saoirse’s reasoning, of how Harry nearly sounds like a child. 

“And what does a bad day mean?” Niall asks, genuinely confused. 

The biggest change, the thing that Niall has a hard time adjusting to now, is how much Harry closes down. Before, Harry would’ve been so open about what he was feeling, eager to let Niall know about it but now it’s like chipping away at a cork in a bottle. 

Harry doesn’t say anything, just clumsily pats at Niall’s fingers still clamped around his elbow.

“There’s a lot of bad days,” he murmurs as Niall bundles him up the path and into the house. Harry glances away, blinking hard in the bright light in the hallway. He looks a little pale and Niall knows he’s going to chuck up at some point, if he hasn’t already.

“You need to tell me when you have a bad day,” Niall murmurs but Harry’s not listening, his body slowly sagging into the banister. He lands on the bottom stair with a thump, his face screwing up like he’s confused as to how he got there. Niall stares at him, his chest tightening with frustration and pity and everything in between as he helps him up. 

Taylor’s in the kitchen, the washing hanging from the lines strung across the table. Her face is still drawn, her frown intense as she sits amongst dripping shirts. She’s got a cup of weak tea in front of her -- nearly grey -- and a cigarette burnt down to the end between her knuckles. 

Saoirse bounds up at the sight of them, her hair flying everywhere. “Did you bring fish and chips again?” 

Niall hushes her, glancing at Taylor. She hasn’t moved and Harry’s still lingering behind him, half hidden. “Found him,” Niall says, wheeling Harry into the kitchen. He shrugs out of his coat before helping Harry out of his too. The pair of them are staring at each other, Taylor’s eyes narrowed. “And he’s brought Spam,” Niall fills the silence. He slides the tin onto the table beside Taylor, knocking against the ashtray. 

The silence stretches on for another long moment before Harry turns and heads back into the living room. He sinks into the corner of the sofa, his face carefully blank. Niall knows he’s trying not to throw up. 

“Harry?” Saoirse asks, going after him. 

Niall catches her, ruffling her hair. “In a wee minute,” he tells her. “Come on. I’ll let you use the tin opener.”

At the table, Taylor hides her face in her hand, a sheath of hair falling over her face. The cigarette smoke lingers, catches at the back of his throat and sinks into the collar of his drying shirts. It reminds him sharply of the war, of pressing a cigarette between his mouth because the rest of his body was numb. He’ll smell it all week in the post office. 

Niall manages to make something vaguely edible, frying the Spam and the little potatoes they have left together. Taylor gets up from the table just as Niall’s separating it onto plates. It’s meagre when he sees it stretched for four people. She kisses his temple, her lips dry against his skin. “Thank you,” she whispers, her fingers scratching across the hairline at the nape of his neck. 

They eat in the kitchen, Saoirse filling up the silence with stories from school. Niall’s half hidden behind a damp pair of long johns drooping off the line.

“Taylor?” Harry asks when they’re done and Saoirse’s yawning into her wrist. His face looks so open and vulnerable for a moment, his bottom lip wet and protruding slightly as he looks at her. 

“Not tonight,” she says, her mouth trembling. She reaches for another cigarette. “Not tonight, Harry.”

*

The next few days are silent and tense. Saoirse seems to notice, her smiles wavering whenever she glances between Harry and Taylor at the breakfast table. 

Harry puts all his effort into keeping her occupied. He takes over the Christmas decorations, hauling Saoirse up onto his shoulders so she can hang them from the corners of the room but one of them droops enough that it brushes Niall’s head everytime he walks under it. 

It makes Saoirse laugh, though, so they don’t fix it. 

“I’ll come with you,” Harry says, early Sunday morning. 

Saorise’s squirming in Niall’s lap, trying to wriggle away from where Niall’s pulling her messy hair into a plait. Taylor manages to do it so easily but Niall can never get it right. 

Niall glances up. “Are you sure?”

Harry nods, looking nearly mournful. There are deep circles under his eyes and Niall knows he hasn’t been sleeping well the past few nights. They’ve even swapped sides in the bed, Niall sliding into the middle between him and Taylor. It’s been hot, their combined body heat making Niall sweat even though it’s the middle of December. 

Taylor breathes against him in the mornings, her eyelids fluttering as she wakens. She squeezes at his elbow, presses kisses to his mouth and ignores where Harry’s arm is wound over Niall’s waist until it’s touching her hip altogether. 

“Great,” Niall sighs, shifting Saoirse off his knee so she’s standing between them. “Can you do her hair? I’m shit at it.”

“Ssssshit,” Saoirse says, looking impish in the grey light of the living room. 

Niall stands up and shakes out his leg, Saoirse’s getting too big to sit in his lap. He grits his teeth through the pain and tries not to make his limp any worse as he makes his way over to the kitchen.

“Too bad you’re too small for Confession.”

Harry laughs, a sharp bark that falls short as he takes Niall’s space on the sofa. He pats his knee and makes a show of letting her climb all over him. Niall listens to the pair of them shriek and squeal, his knee spasming so hard that he has to steady himself against the sink. 

Niall makes coffee, too weak to be of much use but at least it’s warm. When he comes back into the living room, Harry’s still trying to do the plait, his hands shaking so bad that Saoirse’s wincing in his lap. 

“Can we not get Taylor to do it?” Saoirse whines, her eyes squeezing shut. “She doesn’t hurt me when she does it.”

Harry’s face falls, his eyes shuttering. Niall sets the mugs on the mantelpiece and reaches for her. Her hair's a mess and she’s pouting, her face gone splotchy pink with annoyance. 

Taylor’s still asleep and Niall’s happy to leave her. She had been exhausted when they fell into bed late last night. 

“It’ll do,” he tells her, wrestling her into her coat. “Come on,” he says to Harry and then they’re out the door and into the fog. 

Harry’s quiet, lagging behind slightly as they make it to the end of the road. The fog is thick and dense, worse than it was yesterday. Niall hopes it doesn’t take them much longer to get to chapel -- he hates being late and giving people the chance to stare. They do enough staring without making a scene as it is.

“Niall,” Saoirse whines, traipsing between them. “Slow down.”

“We don’t want to be late --”

“Announce yourself!”

Niall startles, glancing in the direction of the bark. It’s too foggy to see anyone. Saoirse lets out a little yelp and she walks straight into the back of Niall’s legs, stumbling a little. 

Niall throws a hand out to stop her going in front of him and Harry stumbles too, his hand reaching for Saoirse’s shoulder. His other clutches at Niall’s coat, pulling it a few inches down his neck before he rights himself. Niall can feel Harry’s body heat behind him and it’s reassuring in the fog. 

“Hello?” Niall calls out tentatively. 

“Friend or foe?!” Comes a yell. It’s loud -- too early for this time of the morning and Niall jumps again. He glances around, catches Harry’s startled expression. He’s wide-eyed, his face even paler than before. 

Niall’s heart starts to race, his training -- never forgotten -- kicks in. In the forests of France, he was constantly on watch for something like this, and even a few years later he can’t get rid of the instinct. 

“It’s fine,” Niall says, spinning in a circle. They enclose Saoirse between them as Niall glances over Harry’s shoulders into the grey behind him. 

Harry inhales sharply and then Niall feels something prod into his spine. It makes him jump. It’s thick -- just the right shape for a barrel of a gun. “Jesus Christ!” Niall yelps, turning round to face the gun.

He blinks and the face comes into focus. His grey hair is nearly camouflaged by the fog, the pale of his face hard to recognise. The old army uniform is hard to miss though, the green worn nearly grey with age. There’s a red ribbon hanging crooked above the breast pocket, the others torn away with the miscare of the jacket. 

“John?” Niall asks, his heart thumping in his throat. He takes a breath of air, feels himself calming down rapidly as he realises it’s just his mad neighbour John. “Catch yourself on, Christ.”

“The Irish?” John cries out, jabbing his arm towards Niall. It’s not a bayonet -- thank god -- but the broken end of a broom. John jabs again, as if there’s a blade at the end of it. “Fucking traitors!”

Niall rolls his eyes, taking a step back. His heart is still racing but there’s relief following it, making his insides feel like jelly. He puts a hand behind him, feeling the warmth of Saoirse’s head tucked close to this back. 

John’s eyes are bloodshot, his skin sickly pale. He’s been losing his mind for as long as Niall remembers him. 

He was too old -- too sick -- to be drafted into the second war, lost his mind in the Great War the rumour always was. Niall’s never seen him out of his dirty jacket, the rest of his clothing usually in great disarray. 

Today, John’s not even wearing any trousers. 

“Come on, John. Back to bed with you.” Niall reaches out cautiously, tries to herd him like he’s cattle down the street. Behind him, Harry’s hoisting Saoirse up into his arms. “It’s not safe for you to be out in this weather.”

He used to help his cousins do this years ago, the four of them running down the lane after the cattle or sheep. Bobby didn’t have a farm but Niall loved it -- getting up over the fields, playing in the bales of hay, getting lost picking blackberries. (Greg, unsurprisingly, hated having to come after him to get him home.)

“The enemy is on the move!” John bellows, raising the broom handle up into the air. The jacket shifts and Niall’s met with the dirtiest pair of pants he’s seen. Niall glances away, tries not to laugh. John’s legs are mottled grey and blue. His feet are shoved in a pair of boots, the tops of them gaping open from wear, the soles hanging off like slapping tongues. Niall doesn’t even want to see the shape of his feet. 

“Yes!” Niall calls back. “The enemy is coming! You need to find shelter.”

John eyes him for a moment, his gaze unfocused. “Retreat!”

Niall snorts, backing away from him as John melts into the fog behind him. He feels a twinge of guilt leaving him be but he’s made it the past twenty years on his own, Niall supposes he can get himself home safely. 

He turns to find Harry and Saoirse in the fog, his heart sinking as he looks at Harry’s expression. 

“Harry?” Niall asks. 

Saoirse pets at Harry’s cheek, her head pillowed on his shoulder. “Why are you crying, Harry?”

Harry closes his eyes, another tear dribbling over onto his cheek. Niall’s not sure he even knows he’s doing it. 

“Go on home, Harry,” Niall says gently, guilt filling him up because he laughed. The war treats people different ways, it’s not something to find amusing. Niall knows that. 

Harry shakes his head, kisses Saoirse’s temple before letting her down. “No, come on. We don’t want to be late.”

Harry still looks shaken and red eyed by the time they make it to the church. They’re just on time, that lull just before the priest comes out. Niall’s still getting used to hearing the church bells sounding after so long without them. 

His re-heeled shoes click on the tiles as Niall leads them up the aisle. The pews are pretty full, three different parishes all forced to use this church building because their own have been bombed out and never rebuilt. It was fine during the war -- enough space to accommodate all the women and children and a few strays like Niall but now that the men have returned, it’s crowded. 

Niall blinks. 

Some of the men have returned, anyway.

Niall finds one with enough space for them, the rest of the line shuffling down so Harry can perch on the end. Saoirse sits squashed between them, her elbows digging into Niall’s side. 

A woman in the pew in front turns her head, her hat hardly concealing the scornful look she gives them, her eyes lingering on Harry’s pale face and the way Saoirse’s turning into his side whilst still holding Niall’s hand. Niall feels too hot and he tries to slide out of his coat, his elbow brushing his neighbour. 

“Sorry,” he whispers when she tuts.

Harry’s tense through mass, his shoulders rigid. He tells Saoirse to be quiet when she gets restless, her hands twisting in his coat to try and coax him into whispering to her. She knows better than to try and get Niall to play. 

Niall prays. Prays for Saoirse and for Taylor. Prays for Harry. He prays for his mam and his da and the whole host of people that aren’t there anymore.

Harry doesn’t go for Communion, his gaze skittering away from Niall when he looks at him questioningly. When Niall was younger -- before the war, when he went to mass just because it was expected of him -- Niall thought it was a waste if you didn’t go for Communion. What was the point in sitting there all morning and not going? Now, his stomach sinks as he stands in the aisle waiting and he realises that Harry thinks he doesn’t deserve it. That he’s done something wrong to mean he _can’t_ receive it. 

On his way back, he sees him hunched over himself at the end of the seat, his shoulders rounded as he stares at his clasped hands. Saoirse is beside him, her head tipped back as she looks up at the choir in the gallery above, the sound of the hymn echoing in the still air. That’s new too, the choir sounding joyous for once.

Harry doesn’t move until Niall touches him carefully on the shoulder and then Harry shifts, letting Niall climb into the seat beside him. 

He’s not surprised when Harry lingers in the pew after mass is over. 

“I’m going to Confession,” Harry tells him in a low whisper. Saoirse is hanging off the end of the pew looking bored, her hair flying out of the loose plait. The priest is at the back of the chapel, the bright laughs of his congregation saying goodbye to him echoing. He’ll be a while. 

“We can wait,” Niall says, moving to sit down again. Saoirse gives out an exaggerated sigh, her fingers gripping the varnished mantel and leaning back as far as she’ll go. If she falls she’ll crack her head on the slate tile. Harry shakes his head, his shoulders rounding defensively again. 

Niall wants to kiss him. Wants to pull him into a hug and tell him he’s alright but the implications of doing that, especially here, weighs heavily on him. 

“Come on,” Niall says, reaching for Saoirse’s hand. She beams, happy to finally be leaving. 

“Harry,” she calls, her little hand reaching out for him but Harry doesn’t move, his head tucked down between his shoulders as they leave him kneeling in the pew. 

*

Taylor’s curled in the corner of the sofa, a soft, damp flannel on her head when he makes it home.

Niall pauses, watching her for a moment. She has a book curled in her lap but she’s only half heartedly reading, her facial expression blank. 

The moment is ruined when Saoirse barges in behind him. Taylor’s shoulders jerk and then she looks up, smiling as Saoirse rushes in to give her a kiss hello. 

“Sorry,” Niall apologises, a beat too late. Saoirse dances away in search of something to play with, her coat landing in the heap beside the fireplace. “What are you reading?”

Taylor smiles softly, sliding the flannel off her forehead. “Bleak House.”

Niall shrugs. Harry is a better person to be chatting the merits of literature. 

She smiles again, her finger trailing down the spine of the worn book. “Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping, and the waterside of pollutions of a great and dirty city,” she reads from the book, her voice dropping low. “Fog on the Essex marshes, fog on the Kentish heights. Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards, and hovering in the rigging of great ships.”

Niall slides onto the other end of the sofa. “Fog fucking everywhere.” 

Taylor laughs, sliding down the sofa a little. She nudges his thigh with the heel of her foot and Niall pats at his lap, letting her push her feet into it. She folds the book over, shifting easily onto her back. 

“Harry?” she asks quietly. He can hear her worry and it settles something in Niall, knowing that she’s not that angry at all with him anymore. He hopes that he comes straight home and doesn’t make it worse. Niall’s taught him enough holes in the wall where he could get a drink on a Sunday in their past lives and Niall hopes he doesn’t have to go searching for him again. He doesn’t like always playing peacemaker. 

“On his way,” Niall answers just as low. He cradles her ankle delicately, presses his thumb into the soft skin in the middle of her sole. She grunts at the ease of pressure, her eyes fluttering shut. 

“Yeah, keep doing that,” she sighs. 

Niall smiles, pressing his thumbs in harder. She sighs again, her body rolling with pleasure. Niall lets a hand wander, sliding up her leg and over her knee. She hums gently, her eyes closed as Niall gets to the top of her stocking, his fingers brushing over the soft, warm bare skin. 

“Niall,” Taylor sighs, her eyes fluttering open. 

“Taylor,” Niall responds, fighting a grin. He ghosts his fingers across the inside of her thigh, slipping up further under her skirt. 

She raises an eyebrow at him and Niall feels himself smiling. It’s the middle of the day -- not respectable, most would say. But then again, not much they get up to would be deemed respectable. When Saoirse was a baby and it was just Niall and Taylor at home, trying to figure out how to get her to sleep at night and not all day, the afternoon was all they had. It’s only gotten worse as she’s gotten bigger, the three of them stealing moments whenever they can with each other. 

Saoirse drops something in the kitchen as if to punctuate how much has changed since then.

“I’m fine!” she calls, breaking off into a mischievous giggle. 

Niall trails his fingers down until they can rest below Taylor’s knee, feeling the way her leg trembles against his touch.

“Are you happy?” Taylor asks in a whisper. 

Niall glances up at her, jarred by how blunt she’s being. 

“Of course,” Niall says. “What more could I want? I have a roof over my head. I have you and Harry and Saoirse.”

Taylor’s face goes quietly blank and Niall swallows. There’s something in her expression that makes him second guess himself. He glances away. “Are you?” he asks, hesitantly. 

He doesn’t look up to see Taylor’s reaction, just rubs his fingers into the sole of her foot. She lets out a little sound, like she does when she can’t help it and she’s a little embarrassed to be enjoying it so much. Niall likes that sound, more used to hearing it when she’s pressed between them, their skin sticky and her hands clinging to him, like she can’t let go.

Niall smiles down at her toes, massaging them until he feels her relax, her hand going lax across her stomach. 

She sounds a little choked when she answers. “Yes.”

Niall smiles at her, lifting her foot so he can press his lips to the smooth skin above her ankle. She laughs as he bends her knee, her skirt stretching where he tries to worm in between her legs. 

“Niall,” she gasps, breathless with laughter as Niall pushes her skirt up above her knees so she has enough room to splay her knees. The book falls to the floor with a thump, bouncing and falling open on the rug. 

“Taylor,” he says mockingly back to her. There’s pink finally returning to her cheeks as she laughs, her eyes crinkling. The flannel is damp at his elbow when he shifts, bracketing her head with his arms. 

He ducks down and brushes his mouth against hers, feeling how warm she is. 

“Are you okay?” he whispers, finally letting his concern bleed into his tone. It ruins the moment slightly, Taylor’s eyes dimming. She nods, puts on a brave face that Niall can see through. 

“Fine,” she tells him, leaning up to kiss him again. Niall sighs into it, letting his weight push her down into the cushions. “You’re cheering me up.”

Niall smiles, licking across her bottom lip. He can’t push for much else with Saoirse clattering about in the other room but Taylor sighs happily, one hand resting against the skin of his hip under his shirt and the other gripped around his bicep. 

He kisses her until she’s breathless, her face more flushed than pale. She giggles into his chin, her hair mussed on the cushions below her. 

Niall pushes his face into the crook of her neck, where she’s soft and warm. Her hair smells of lavender. He lets his eyes fall shut and he listens to the too-fast beat of her heart until he falls into an easy sleep. 

*

He trails Saoirse away from dinner after she’s finished. 

Taylor and Harry are still splitting some of the food between them, the teapot at Taylor’s elbow. Harry had brought home cake as a conciliatory measure and the silence between them is beginning to thaw. Harry’s smile still doesn’t feel genuine but Niall’s trying to look on the bright side of things. 

They’re only heading a few doors down to Mrs Harkinson but Taylor insists on both of them wrapping up in coats. Her phone has been the talk of the street and she’s been more than happy to oblige if someone needs to make a phonecall -- at a small price, of course. 

Niall arrives at her door with a specially wrapped parcel of shortbread and Mrs Harkinson happily acquiesces.

“Hello, dear,” she says, her hand sliding across his cheek in a familiar gesture. Her mother was from Wexford, so her London accent is mottled with soft cadences of home and Niall smiles at her as he steps into her hallway. She smiles down at Saoirse -- the two of them thick friends from the babysitting Mrs Harkinson sometimes helps with -- “Would you like a biccy, Saoirse.”

“Yes, please, Mrs. H.,” Saoirse sing-songs, flapping her way into Mrs Harkinson’s kitchen, her coat finally slipping off her arm and lying in the middle of the hallway. 

“Only one,” Niall warns, following them at a slower pace. Saoirse perches herself on the edge of a kitchen chair, her legs swinging as she bites into a piece of shortbread Taylor had used the last of the sugar on. 

“Are you excited for Father Christmas?” Saoirse asks, curiously. 

Mrs Harkinson laughs, her expression softening. “Of course,” she replies. “Christmas is always exciting. Are you excited for him coming?”

“Yes!” Saoirse launches into a long and winding story -- another trait she’s picked up from Harry -- about some of her little school friends. Mrs Harkinson hums when appropriate but Niall knows she’s hardly listening to her. She has dealing with children down to a fine art. Niall watches as she pets at Saoirse’s hair and passes her another piece of shortbread when Saoirse’s piece is done.

Saoirse grins up at her, her fingers nearly snatching the biscuit away from Mrs Harkinson. “Saoirse,” Niall warns. “That’s a present for Mrs H.”

Mrs Harkinson shakes her head. “Now that Mr Harkinson is gone,” she trails off, gives Niall a little shrug. Niall had only met Mr Harkinson a handful of times before the war, his navy uniform always immaculate and his London accent thick. “Best eat it all up before it goes stale.” 

“What does stale mean?” Saoirse asks through a mouthful of crumbs.

Niall glances at the clock, sees that it’s nearly seven. “Come on,” he says, pulling Saoirse into his arms. “It’s time.” It feels strange to be pulling the dial to the numbers in Mullingar, Saoirse, restless on his knee. 

He goes through three switchboards, his teeth grinding as he calls out his father’s name but it doesn’t take long until the phones are connected to his butchers shop. 

“Son,” Bobby says and Niall clings to the handle of the telephone.

“Hiya, Da,” Niall responds. If he closes his eyes, he can neary visualise his dad standing in the quiet shop, the sky dark out the wide window at the front. It’s been years since Niall’s stood in it but he imagines it’s still the same, the black and white tiles scrubbed clean under his feet, the smell of meat and blood familiar. 

“Ah, merry Christmas, Niall,” his dad says, his voice sounding distant over the line. “How are you? How’s the baby?”

Niall snorts, bounces Saoirse on his knee. “Not a baby anymore, Da.”

Bobby laughs. “No, neither is Theo. He has the place torn apart when you aren’t looking. Climbing into everything.” He barely pauses. “Is she there with you?”

Niall feels a twist in his stomach at the anticipation in his tone and hands the phone to Saoirse. It feels strange to not have met Theo, for his dad not to have met Saoirse. He always thinks of his aunt Mary and her children all born in New York. His grandmother would talk of them as if they lived down the street, as if she knew what they looked like and their manner. As if she knew and loved them as well as Niall standing right in front of her.

“Hello,” Saoirse sing-songs into the receiver and Niall settles back into the hard backed chair, listening as Saoirse chatters away to his dad. 

It’s always somewhat of a surprise to Niall that his father is able to love her when he hasn’t even met her, just a grainy picture of her when she was very small. Guilt always burns at his gut when he thinks of either Eoghan or Laura’s parents, oblivious to the existence of their grandchild when Bobby considers himself having two. 

It had taken a while for Niall to build up the courage to contact his father. He hadn’t been home very long, getting used to looking after a baby taking up most of his time. Taylor had slid a piece of paper across the table at him one night, Saoirse half asleep on her knee. They’d been taking turns getting up with her but Niall hadn’t been able to get her to settle, stiff with his injury and clumsy by blackout candlelight. 

“Why don’t you write to him?” Taylor had murmured, her voice low not to wake the baby. 

Niall can still remember the way his eyes had burned when he had read his father’s response: _You don’t have to explain why you were away. Just know that I’m so glad to hear that you’re well._

He had tucked the letter into his coat pocket and carried it around for a while before he’d been rained on enough that it was nearly in tatters.

The news of Saoirse had followed shortly after, the details vague because Niall hadn’t worked out himself how to explain to people their situation. Strangers on the street assumed that she was Niall and Taylor’s but their neighbours were more tricky. By the time Harry came back, they had decided on stating that she was Niall’s niece, their web of family ties getting more tangled and suspicious to those close by. 

Saoirse kicks at Niall’s shin, holding the telephone receiver over her shoulder for Niall to take.

“Thank you,” Niall tells her, letting her down off his knee and bringing the phone up to his ear. “Hello. I can’t stay long. Just wanted to wish you a happy Christmas.”

“That’s okay,” his father says, then quickly. “How are you?” 

Niall’s answer is immediate. “Fine.” 

“Niall,” Bobby implores and Niall feels the first thrust of homesickness. It’s been getting worse with these phonecalls, Niall coming off the phone empty and aching to see his father’s face. 

Saoirse’s bopping her head along to the song on the wireless, Mrs Harkinson laughing with her. Their distorted accents mixing together. Niall wonders what she’d be like back at home, how she’d like the countryside. 

“It’s nothing,” Niall replies. “I just miss home sometimes.” 

“You know there’s always space for you here,” Bobby says, a hint of trepidation below his warmth. It’s been so long since he’s been home. It’s understandable that Bobby isn’t sure how to broach the subject. People leave Mullingar and never come back. Niall thinks of all his family in New York and Melbourne that he’ll never see again. All those that are too far away to even make a phone call like this. “We would all love to see you again. And Saoirse. You know that.” His father hesitates for a moment. “Harry and Taylor, too.” 

Niall closes his eyes against the sudden wave of dizziness. With Saoirse talking more and more to his father, it’s been hard to pretend that they don’t exist. He hasn’t told his father much -- just two people they live with -- but Bobby isn’t stupid, Taylor and Harry clearly matter just as much to Saoirse as Niall does. 

“Da,” Niall murmurs, his voice thick. The static over the line is loud. Every mile separating them evident in the white noise. 

“Okay, okay,” Bobby finally sighs. “Wish them Happy Christmas from all of us here.” 

“I will,” Niall says, lingering on the end of the line. “Night.”

“Love you, son.”

He bundles Saoirse into his arms for the short trip home, burrowing his nose into her neck as she wriggles about against his chest until he hooks her legs against his side. She smells of woodsmoke and sweat, her hair tickling his nose. It’s cold out, their breaths plumes of smoke in front of them as Niall kicks open the gate and carries her on into the house. 

Harry and Taylor are in the sitting room. Harry looks up from where he’s colouring the last of the decorations, his face breaking into a tight smile. The entire house will be covered in paper chains, he’s done so many of them. Taylor’s darning something, her face a frown. They both appraise him, their eyes lingering jointly on his grip around Saoirse. 

“Nice chat?” Harry asks, the crayon still poised in his hand but he’s turning more towards them. 

Niall lets Saoirse down onto the sofa and goes straight to him. Harry snorts, pulling him into a hug, his hands sweeping up over Niall’s back. He smells stale and it’s awkward, Niall stooped over at the waist until Harry drags him closer until he’s folding into Harry’s space, half on his lap. 

“You okay?” Harry whispers, his mouth close to Niall’s ear. He nods into Harry’s shoulder, Saoirse’s excited babbling muffled by the way he’s squished against Harry.

“--And Mrs H let me have _two_ of the biscuits you made, Taylor,” Saoirse’s saying. “Niall wouldn’t let me have a three --” The sofa shakes with how she’s bouncing on it, her body vibrating now the little sugar that was in the shortbread hits her. The tiniest bit sends her hyper because she’s not so used to it.

“Bugger,” Taylor gasps and then sharper. “Saoirse!”

Niall pulls away from Harry to see her wincing at her finger. Saoirse’s mouth is a round ‘O’. A bubble of red erupts slowly on Taylor’s finger and she shoves it into her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. 

“Are you alright?” Niall asks her, reaching towards her. She glares at him, a tear spilling over onto her cheek before she gets to her feet and leaves the room. They listen to her feet on the stairs and then the creak of floorboards as she enters their bedroom. 

It’s only moments before Saoirse is pressing up against him, her eyes growing red and her face crumpled in confusion. “Hey, little bird,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to her warm forehead. “She’s alright. Don’t worry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Harry reaches forward to ruffle her hair and then gets to his feet. His face looks ashen, like it had this morning. “Come on. Think it’s bedtime for everyone, anyway.”

They put her to bed together, something they don’t do often. Harry runs water and stokes the fire. Their bar of soap is growing small, Niall notes, as he rubs it over her shoulders and arms. She looks miserable sitting in their tin bath but Harry keeps chatting to her, his voice low but cheerful. Harry stays close as Niall smooths a brush through her unruly hair and puts her into her pyjamas. She’s gone pink from the rough towel but she doesn’t complain until they’re bundling her into bed, her eyes drooping. 

“Ten more minutes,” she murmurs sluggishly. Harry laughs, kissing her forehead. 

“Night night,” Niall says, watching her until she can’t open her eyes any longer. Harry stays too, his body warm behind Niall’s shoulder. He gives Niall’s arm a squeeze when he stands up from his crouch beside the bed. 

Their bedroom door is ajar, low light creeping into the hallway. Harry glances at him, his face in shadow before he places a hand to Niall’s hip and pushes him towards the mouth of the stairs. 

It would be cowardly to go, a sign of how they’re too eager to avoid another row. Niall’s shoulders sag with exhaustion. 

Harry’s face falls, reading him perfectly. “I’ll tidy up,” he whispers, turning towards the stairs.

Taylor startles when Niall enters the room, tugging down her nightdress roughly. It’s an old one that Niall barely remembers, the ruffles of it nearly Victorian. Niall longs for the summer months when she’d lie sprawled across the mattress with them naked. 

“Are you alright?” Niall asks, treading carefully. He sits on her side of the bed, looks at the books stacked on her bedside table, the little dish of fine jewelry she still has. There’s a half empty bottle of red nail polish beside the gaslamp, a tumbler of water that’s gone stagnant in the day. 

The other bedside table is a mess in comparison, filled with all of Niall and Harry’s junk that they’ve emptied from their pockets. Odd buttons and a few coins, a broken comb and crumpled tissues and scraps of paper.

She nods, glancing away from him to undo her hair in the mirror. “It’s just been --” She sighs, leaving half of it pulled up, curls tumbling over her shoulders. She sinks onto the mattress beside him. “Just been feeling a little under the weather. It’s this rotten cold. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.”

Niall laughs, sliding his knuckles onto her thigh. She gives him a quiet smile and curls her fingers into his palm, drawing nonsense patterns across his skin.

“At least we’ve Christmas to look forward to,” Niall says, leadingly. There’s a moment of silence before Taylor’s laughing mirthlessly, Niall joining in. Out of them all, Harry and Saoirse are the ones who enjoy Christmas most. 

“We’ll get through it,” Niall tells her, letting her know that he’s being serious now. She smiles tightly, her shoulder leaning against Niall’s. “Do you want me to rub your feet again?”

Taylor laughs, turning her face up to him. “No. I want you to kiss me.”

That’s easy. Niall can do that. 

She moans softly at the meeting of their lips, Niall opening his mouth against hers. Taylor sighs softly against him, twisting until Niall’s falling back against the mattress, Taylor tight against him. 

They kiss, Niall’s hand undoing the laces of her nightdress. She shivers against him, her hand on his hip keeping them pressed impossibly close. 

“What do you want?” she asks, quietly. She pulls away, sitting up to reach for the lamp. She dims it until half of her face is in shadow. Her hair falls down from behind her ear and Niall plays with it for a moment, tangling his fingers in the soft curls covered in lacquer. 

“Whatever you want,” he whispers back, feeling the need to meet her on her own terms tonight. Her mouth curves up but her eyebrows are still dipped in a frown and Niall fights not to be concerned. 

“Can I --” she asks, not really a question. She’s curled on her leg at his knee, her face turned against the light so he can hardly make out her expression. 

“Taylor?” Niall asks, sitting up. He reaches to touch her face and she smiles, turning into his hand before sinking back into the bed so gently it doesn’t even squeak. Niall stands, undressing quickly and quietly, smiling down at her when he catches her watching. 

He spares a moment to wonder where Harry’s got to but then Taylor glances up at him, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. 

“Can I have what you were going to do this afternoon?” she asks quietly, her cheeks pink. She curls her fingers in the skirt of her nightdress and tugs it up to the top of her thighs.

Niall pushes his underwear off, shivering in the cool air and he laughs softly, kneeling onto the bed. It creaks with the weight and Taylor shifts, her knee bending so there’s room for Niall between them. 

“Of course,” Niall murmurs, dipping down to kiss the inside of her knee. She sighs, relaxing into the mattress. 

“Gentle,” she whispers back. “Be gentle.”

Niall hums against her skin, his tongue lapping out where she’s already started to sweat behind her knee. “Of course.”

Taylor smiles at him again, sinking back into the pillows. 

Harry comes to bed later, the duvet wafting up as he climbs in and it’s not hard to tell what they’ve been doing. Niall thinks of reaching for him, blindly searching across the sheets for his hand but he’s already being pulled under into sleep, his eyes closed, hands where they are around Taylor.

*

Niall blinks his eyes open to darkness. Gasps. 

But no air comes. 

He flails, his hand thumping into the mattress beside him, a knee bumping into something solid. 

He draws a breath again. Like breathing through a towel, his face pressed into the dirt. Under water. Full of sand. Clogged.

In the desert, the thought had filled him with dread and he’d lie in fear of being caught in a dust storm with nowhere to turn. It had been that same choking fear of something happening to Harry when he was gone for so long, something happening to Taylor surrounded in London by falling brick and debris. 

When he was trapped in the hospital, in dreadful heat and the claustrophobic fumes of bleach and metallic death, he thought suffocation in your sleep would have been kinder. 

He coughs, manages to breathe under the crushing pressure of something heavy on his chest. A light snaps on and Harry’s face swims before him. But it’s hardly Harry at all. His eyes are wide. Wild. Cheekbones catch the light so he looks severe, his mouth hanging open and jaw slack. 

Fingers tighten like a vice. A thumb at his windpipe. 

Niall slaps at his back where it’s rounded over him, his legs either side of his waist. He could float away like this. Float away into darkness. He thinks about letting go, his fingers growing numb. Just. Like. That. 

Niall arches his back, his fingers digging into firm skin and his body twists, wildly, like an animal. 

Air flies back into his lungs, his chest aching. Niall gasps, retches, chokes. Vomit and bile drip onto his chest. It comes up the back of his throat, nowhere else to go until he can feel it behind his nose.

He’s sitting up without knowing how he got there, shoulders heaving. He blinks, his eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. The room smells sharp with sweat and sick and urine. 

On the floor, Harry’s panting. 

Niall drags in another breath, each one laced with barbs that jags at his throat. “Harry.”

He doesn’t answer, his body still stretched out on the floor unmoving. Niall blinks away the wetness in his eyes, pushes at the sodden blankets in his lap. He feels disconnected, everything going slower than it should. 

Taylor’s hand curls around his shoulder -- a gesture to stop him from going -- but otherwise she doesn’t make a sound.

“Harry,” Niall repeats, wishing he’d look up at him. Niall swallows, his mouth tasting acrid. He closes his eyes, clears his aching throat. He takes a moment to settle his beating heart before he barks, “Styles!” 

Harry takes in a shuddering breath, his hands curling into fists by his sides. 

“Harry?” Niall asks softly, slipping down onto the floor behind him. He’s back. His Harry is back from wherever he’d gone. He’s shaking, his shoulder trembling. It smells stronger of piss down here. 

“Come on,” Niall urges him gently. “Harry. It’s okay.”

Harry jerks when Niall places a palm on his bare shoulder but Niall doesn’t let go. He’s still shaking, great juddering jerks with every shallow breath Harry inhales. 

“Harry,” Niall says soothingly. His head is aching. “You’re okay.”

Harry flinches away, blinks a few times. His eyes are shining in the moonlight streaming through the open window and Niall sees when they flit to meet Niall’s face, shock registering in his expression. 

“Harry --” Niall starts but Harry’s already scrambling to his feet, his knees nearly giving way under him as he rolls over onto his front. 

“Harry!” Taylor calls from the bed but he’s already pushing out of the bedroom, the door banging loudly against the wall as he throws it open. 

Niall follows him, ignoring the way the second door on the landing opens and the commotion of Taylor getting out of bed behind him. 

Downstairs, it’s even darker and Harry bumps into the end of the sofa, letting out a groan when he walks straight into the Christmas decorations hanging from the ceiling. Niall listens as they rip, Harry fighting his way through them to get to the backdoor. The handle thuds against the wall, the glass reflecting the moon as it’s thrown open. 

Niall takes a moment to light the gaslamp in the living room, his own fingers trembling. Harry’s never had a nightmare quite as bad as this since he’s returned home and it’s shocking, in a sort of delayed way. 

Niall’s throat aches and he swallows again, pressing his fingers to the tender skin under his jaw. There’s a pain behind his eyes, pounding with every pulse of blood.

Niall had thought he had already seen the worst. 

The embers of the fire are still glowing so he stokes it and drags the bathtub into the living room. Upstairs, he can hear Taylor putting Saoirse back to bed but she doesn’t come down. 

He finds Harry outside, pressed into the tiny space between the wall of the outhouse and the end of the yard. Niall can think of nothing worse, being enclosed in a tight space but Harry seems to like it sometimes, folding himself into narrow places to find his breath when it all gets too much. 

Niall doesn’t say anything, just crouches down in front of him. It’s bitterly cold and Harry’s shaking, his whole body trembling as he tries to curl into himself. 

Niall reaches out a hand, offers it to him silently. 

It take a few moments, cold seeping into Niall’s knees, before he grips his hand back and Niall can pull him into the relative warmth of the house. 

“I’ll run you a bath,” Niall tells him, keeping his voice low. It shakes and Niall swallows down on the nerves that are building inside his chest. He doesn’t like it when Harry gets quiet like this. He’d rather he just joked about or laughed or did something. Even arguing is better than this. 

Harry curls in on himself as Niall heats the water for the bath. He’s shaking, great jerking rolls of his shoulders and Niall can tell he’s trying to keep his crying to himself. 

Niall pulls the bath back a few inches so they don’t get scalded and then leads Harry towards it with a hand to his elbow. 

He helps him out of his pants quietly -- practised and easy -- and steadies him as Harry climbs into the water. 

He looks small in the tin bath, his head bent forward. “Here,” Niall murmurs, passing him what’s left of the soap. 

Harry doesn’t take it, his hands in his lap under the water. Niall lets out a breath and drags it over Harry’s shoulders, the soap crumbling over the nape of his neck. He feels Harry still under his palms, his breathing evening out. 

It takes Niall’s mind off things -- off Taylor upstairs, off Bobby at home, off Christmas and money and weather and work. Off fucking war and nightmares and the haunts of desert storms and trenches in France.

He skims his hands lightly over Harry’s shoulders again until he relaxes and then reaches for the soap again. It suds up slightly between his hands and Niall pushes the soap into Harry’s hair, getting it wet and clean. Harry groans softly, Niall’s fingers massaging into his scalp. He nearly goes boneless, his head hanging back so Niall can see the flutter of his eyelashes and the bridge of his nose. 

Niall runs his hands down his back, pushing Harry forward with a nudge of his knuckles so he can clean down Harry’s spine, his fingers sweeping down until they slip across the cleft of his arse and hit the bottom of the bath. 

Harry jerks, his shoulders shaking. 

“Cheeky,” Niall murmurs, trying to make him laugh. 

Harry’s face twists and then he catches Niall’s eyes, looking nervous. 

“What?” Niall whispers, sweeping his hand up to the small of his back. “You can tell me anything.”

“Can --” Harry says, his voice wavering. “Can you get in?”

Niall pauses, the soap slipping out of his palm and into the water. They’ve shared baths before -- not that often because their tin bath is tiny -- but never like this. Never when Niall’s had to wash him as if he couldn’t himself. 

He gets to his feet unsteadily and undresses. Harry watches him, his face blank as Niall pulls off his t-shirt and underwear. He cups his dick in his hand and then nudges Harry forward with a hand to his shoulder. 

Water sloshes up over the edge as he settles behind him, their legs pressed together. Niall pulls Harry back, arranges his legs around him so he’s between his knees. 

Harry tenses when he’s settled and Niall drops his hands into the water between them, fingers searching for what’s left of the soap. Niall pushes his hands up his side, sliding over the shape of his ribs and under his arms. He’s skinnier than before but lean, the muscles of his back rippling and reminding him of how much power he’s built up while he’s been away. 

“Niall,” Harry gasps as Niall rubs suds into the hair there, the process feeling intimate. Niall lingers and then drags his palms over his chest, skimming over his nipples and down to his belly button. Harry’s stomach is quivering with each breath and he hesitates, his hand trailing down until his fingertips are below the water. 

“Do you want me to --?” Niall trails off, his fingertips brushing Harry’s pubic hair. He doesn’t know the etiquette here -- if they have one. 

Harry’s quiet a few moments before he nods his head, his neck strained with the way he’s bent forward. Niall presses his lips to his shoulder, tastes soap and drags his hand down to Harry’s soft dick. 

He’s gentle. Tries to think of how he cleans himself. He cups his hand around Harry, feels the weight of his dick in the cradle of his hand even under water. He swipes soap through his pubic hair, rubs his fingers down around the base of his dick and over his balls. Harry’s breathing hitches, his shoulders raising. Niall can feel him start to grow hard in his hand and he gives him a slow, lingering pull. 

“Niall,” Harry says warningly, his fingers curling around the edge of the bathtub. Niall breathes into his skin, presses his teeth to the muscle of his shoulder. 

He doesn’t know if this will make him feel better or not. Harry’s breathing has turned ragged and Niall pulls gently at his foreskin. Harry jerks again, his hand coming off the edge of the bathtub to press at Niall’s knee. His fingertips press into the sensitive spot at the back and Niall’s leg jerks, water sloshing up. 

“You want me to?” Niall asks quietly. His heart is beating fast but he’s not aroused. He’s second guessing himself, not sure if he’s crossing a line. 

Harry takes a few breaths but doesn’t answer so Niall finishes cleaning him as quickly as he can. Harry’s still half hard against his wrist as he cleans down round Harry’s groin, the inside of his thighs, everywhere he can reach.

“No,” Harry finally whispers, his fingers catching Niall’s. He gives them a squeeze as if he’s apologising and Niall presses his lips to his shoulder again, giving him a quiet kiss. 

“That’s okay,” Niall whispers back. This isn’t about sex. There’s a rawness there -- Harry letting him run his fingers down below his thigh, push soap up against the spot behind his balls and over his rim so Harry jerks again but doesn’t say anything, his fingers tightening around Niall’s knee. 

He uses the old mug by the fire to sluice water over Harry’s shoulders and neck, pulls him back with a gentle hand to his forehead to rinse all the soap out of his hair. Harry’s eyes are glassy, straining so he can look at Niall from this angle. Niall offers him a slow smile. 

He has to break the last of the soap in two and he passes Harry a bit with a quiet laugh. “Can’t reach your feet.”

Harry smiles, hair dripping over his forehead and down his neck as he reaches forward to clean between his toes. 

Niall uses the rest of the soap to wash himself, pushing soapy hands into the strands of his hair and pouring the water from the mug over his head. It’s cooler and makes him gasp, bubbles running down his cheeks. 

He jerks again when he feels Harry’s gentle hands on his heel.

“What are you --?” Niall asks and then Harry’s washing his feet, his broad hands sweeping up over the hair on his calves. “Harry,” Niall says, his chest so tight that he sounds breathless. 

“Ssh,” Harry murmurs, his fingers working up over the knobs of his ankles, pushing soap behind his knees. 

Harry stoops forward to press his mouth against the ugly scar on his knee. It’s still painful, the twinge in it during the winter months prolonged and aching with the cold. 

“I love you,” Harry says, nearly reverently into his knee. Niall smiles, reaching down to press a palm against his rounded spine. “I love you both and --”

Niall knows he carries guilt at not being there when he was hit. Sometimes Niall’s glad he wasn’t there -- it isn’t something he wants to associate with him. 

“Is that --” Niall starts to ask -- _what the dream was about?_ but Harry tenses again, his fingers sliding off Niall’s slippery skin and dropping into the water. 

“Come here,” Niall murmurs, reaching to pull him back. Harry settles against Niall’s front, his shoulders broad against Niall’s chest. He sinks down a few inches, the water sloshing around them until he can hook his elbows over Niall’s thighs, the water pooling up over his belly. 

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Niall asks him gently. Niall pulls his fingers through Harry’s hair, Harry’s head rolling against his chest. 

It feels wrong to be enjoying the feel of Harry between his thighs but they normally never have a chance to do this -- the water cold by the time they’re in it, a child to put to bed, dinner to make. And they won’t have long now either, the water cooling quickly but it’s always nice to feel the press of his body to his, the slip of their slick skin under water, feeling the heat of his body alive and well.

“No,” Harry finally whispers. Niall can feel gooseflesh on his shoulders, the fire dying down now it doesn’t have anyone to stoke it. “I don’t know--”

“That’s okay.” Niall presses against his chest harder, pushing Harry further into his arms. It’s not really a hug, Niall’s thighs pressing against his side too. He wants to envelope him up tighter when he goes quiet and melancholy like this. Niall’s not used to it anymore -- Harry came back from the last year on the Front different. It was hard to see at first, the palpable relief he and Taylor felt at just having him back overtaking everything else for the first few months but now Niall’s starting to notice how much more tentative he is in baring himself open. Niall’s still realising how much he relied -- relies -- on Harry’s openness to fill in where he still finds it hard to navigate their relationship.

He thinks of Taylor’s questions earlier. 

_Are you happy?_

Now, Harry’s much more bottled up with his insecurities, only allowing them to slip out in reedy moments like this when Niall can’t see his face and they feel especially close. When something has happened to force them to confront it. 

He presses his mouth to the crown of Harry’s head, his other hand coming out of the water to hug across his sternum.

“That’s okay,” Niall says again instead, pressing his mouth to Harry’s temple.

Harry drips in front of the fire as Niall empties the bath in the yard and leaves their dirty clothes in a pile on the doorstep. He dries Harry off first, brushing a cleanish towel up over his arms until his skin pinks up from how rough it is.

“Come on,” Niall murmurs, shivering in the cool night air. “We’ll catch something if we sit about.”

Harry hesitates when Niall goes for the door. “I’ll sleep down here.”

Niall turns to look at him. Harry avoids his gaze, moving to perch on the edge of the sofa. 

“Well, budge up then,” Niall says, moving to stand in front of him. Harry glances up, shock finally registering on his face so it doesn’t just look blank. Niall snorts, pushing at his shoulder to press him back into the sofa. “I’m not leaving you alone down here.”

“Niall,” Harry says, his voice raw. “Go to bed.”

“Only if you come with me,” Niall says. “Or you tell me what’s wrong.”

Harry’s quiet for a moment, his eyes shut. His mouth twitches down and Niall can feel when he stops resisting, his back pressing back into the cushions. 

“You can’t tell Taylor. I’m trying to fix it.”

Niall frowns, sinks to his knees in front of him. He feels a bit exposed kneeling naked in the living room like this, wishes there was clean pyjamas down here for them to change into. 

“Fix what?” Niall asks, squeezing gently on Harry’s knee. 

Harry looks at him guility. “I lost my job.”

Niall sinks back onto his heels. “Oh.”

Harry squeezes his eyes shut. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Niall says automatically. And it is alright. They’ll just have to tighten their belts for a while. His mind immediately flashes to the tin on the mantelpiece and the hours he’ll have to try and pick up. “When?”

Harry looks at the ceiling and then at something over Niall’s shoulder so he doesn’t have to look at him in his eyes. That’s what makes irritation flare in Niall’s belly so he pinches the sensitive skin on the inside of Harry’s thigh to get his attention. 

“Ow, fuck!” Harry squawks, jerking away from him. One of his hand curls automatically around his dick and the other goes to press his thumb against the pinch. Niall grabs at his fingers, pulling until Harry ducks his head and looks at him. 

“Harry.”

Harry pulls a face. “I never really got it back to begin with.”

Niall sighs, sinking back from him onto the floor. No wonder it’s been tight. Niall thought they were just struggling to adjust to having another adult back in the household. 

Harry gasps a breath and he looks on the verge of crying again. “I didn’t want to say that I hadn’t got it back. You’d both be so disappointed in me and I wanted to really contribute now that I’m back properly.”

Niall looks up to see a fat tear drip off his chin. 

“I’ve been away for so long -- I didn’t know how to --” Harry takes a gulping breath. “You were both doing so well and I didn’t want to fuck it up and it’s been really hard at times and --”

“Where have you been going?” Niall asks. He hasn’t been at home, keeping up the pretense of leaving the house every morning shortly after Niall. They even had to go and get him a few new white shirts because Niall had worn his old ones threadbare in the years he’d been gone. 

Niall already knows the answer, though. While Niall works extra hours until he aches, Harry’s down the Legion. 

Harry squeezes his eyes shut, another tear dribbling onto his cheek. 

“I thought it was only bad days,” Niall can’t help retort.

Harry flinches, his eyes still shut. “Every day is a bad day.”

Niall grits his teeth together to stop from shouting at him. Niall has his bad days too. He’d love to sit all day in the pub and crawl back home every evening to dinner magically on the table.

Harry’s face crumples and he sinks back into the sofa looking miserable. “You can’t tell Taylor.”

“I don’t like keeping secrets like this. Not when they affect her too,” Niall tells him. “You know I don’t like secrets. Not between us.”

Harry’s eyes widen. “Niall --”

“Fix it,” Niall cuts him off. He squeezes his knee again to soften his words a little bit. He’s angry at the situation but not Harry himself. He doesn’t know why he didn’t tell him sooner. He’s been home nearly six months. “Fix it and then tell her. Now, come on to bed.”

Harry doesn’t argue, his skin rippled with gooseflesh. He gets to his feet and Niall pulls him into a gentle kiss, soft against his mouth. 

Harry shivers again, his hand curling around Niall’s wrist. “I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. His fingers reach up and brush across Niall’s neck. “I’m really sorry.”

Niall nods, pushing his hand away. His neck feels a little tender, his heartbeat pulsing where he knows it will bruise. 

“I thought --” Harry says, his voice choked. “In my dream, you were-- I couldn’t save him and you were--”

Niall kisses his cheek, tastes salt. “Come to bed.”

Taylor’s left a lamp on so they can see where they’re going. She’s stripped the bed, the covers rolled in a ball by the doorway. The window is open letting in frigid air to get rid of the smell. Harry’s step falters once he notices, his shoulders rounding in on themselves again. 

Niall pushes him towards the bed but he waits, letting Niall climb into the middle first so Harry and Taylor aren’t pressed together. 

“I’ll see you in the morning,” Niall says softly, pulling the blankets up over his knees. He should’ve put on clothes but he hopes he’ll be okay in the middle. “Try and get some sleep.”

Harry nods, curling onto his side at the edge of the mattress. Niall kisses his bare shoulder and rolls onto his back, turning his head to look at Taylor in the low lamp light. 

Her eyes flutter open but she’s alert, not asleep at all. Her eyes are dark with confusion and concern but she doesn’t say anything. Niall reaches for her hand in the sheets.

*

Taylor’s awake when Niall gets up. It’s not surprising, Niall doubts she went back to sleep. 

“Morning,” he murmurs, pulling her back to his chest and brushing his lips against her temple. She relaxes for a moment, lets her head fall back against his shoulder for just a second before she straightens up and drops the lid onto the teapot. 

“I’ve made you breakfast,” she tells him, her voice hushed as if she’ll wake up the rest of the house even though they’re both up the stairs. Niall nods at her and slides into the chair at the table. She hovers beside him after she sets down the plate -- two sausages and palm sized portion of egg substitute scrambled with pepper. 

Niall looks up at her, raises an eyebrow. Her smile is watery. “I haggled them off Mrs Harkinson this morning. I’ll have to bake her something with this week’s sugar again. Half our ration ends up at her dinner table.” 

She lifts a hand, brushes her fingers along the reddened line just above his collar. It’ll darken and bruise but Niall knows that he can hide it under Harry’s scarf the rest of the week. He’ll be a long time waiting for his stubble to camouflage it. 

“It’s fine,” he promises her. 

She nods, sitting down onto the chair beside him. She keeps close, her elbow beside the teapot and her knee tucked in beside his under the table. 

Niall pushes one of the sausages onto her plate -- which at the minute holds just a piece of buttered bread, the margarine spread thin -- and starts his breakfast. He hasn’t had a cooked breakfast before work in a while. 

He has to eat quickly, Taylor’s face going more downward and frowny as time wears on. She fidgets a little, her fingers trembling as she picks up a fork, sets it down again, turns her full tea cup this way and then that.

“Take a nap,” he tells her, leaning in to press his lips against her pale cheek. She hasn’t touched the sausage and Niall wonders if she’s going to warm it up again for Harry. “How about you meet me after work and we can head into town.”

Taylor blinks at him, her eyelashes fanning open slowly. He stays close, feels the heat of her breath on the side of his face. He kisses her again. 

“What about--?”

Niall brushes his mouth against hers, presses a kiss to her dry lips. She’s been biting at them, the skin there chapped. “He’ll be fine. I promise.”

Her shoulders slump and Niall kisses her properly, swallowing up her quiet gasp. Her hand curls in the sleeve of his jumper and Niall wishes he could stay here with her instead of going to work at all. 

“I’ll see you later?”

Taylor nods, her hair hanging limply across her cheek. “Have a good day.”

Niall nods, winds Harry’s scarf around his neck and pulls on his coat. 

The stairs creak as he opens the door into the hallway and he glances up, seeing Harry halfway up them. He looks like he’s been caught, his hand frozen on the bannister and his eyes wide. He looks just as exhausted as Niall feels. 

“Morning,” Niall says, gentle and warm.

He can see how Harry visibly relaxes. “Morning,” he replies, his voice raw and uneven. 

“I’ll be late,” Niall replies, thumbing over his shoulder towards the door. 

Harry nods, his hair bouncing where it’s dried curly and unruly. “Have a nice day.”

Niall breathes out through his nose. Harry’s not budging, his feet still firmly on the fourth step. Niall jumps onto the third step, his coat flapping. Harry startles, his eyes widening but Niall presses in to give him a kiss anyway. 

Harry’s eyes soften when he pulls away, his mouth pressing closed. 

“Go,” he urges him and Niall smiles at him, opening the front door and walking backwards into the freezing fog. 

*

Taylor’s waiting outside the post office when Niall’s finished. He pulls his scarf tighter around his mouth and sets off towards where she’s standing close to the gate. She looks sad, her hat tilted down across her brow as he watches her from across the street. She doesn’t notice him until Niall’s nearly in front of her, her shoulder jumping in surprise when Niall touches her elbow. 

“Hi,” she says breathlessly. “I wasn’t sure if you’d see me.”

“You should’ve came inside,” he tells her, giving her forearm a quick squeeze. “It’s freezing.”

She shrugs shyly, pulling on her gloves again. “Didn’t want to cause a fuss.”

Lost in the hustle and bustle of London, it’s easy to pretend it’s just the two of them. Niall feels a twinge of guilt at enjoying it. He shares a look with Taylor that tells him she feels just the same. 

After Niall came back, it was just the two of them. The two of them trying to figure out how to look after a baby, how to adjust to Niall being home and Harry being away. They had so long to work it all out -- years of it just being two plus the baby. Longer than even Harry and Taylor had been alone before Niall had came along. 

It’s been more difficult to adjust to Harry being back too than Niall had anticipated. 

Outside is bitterly cold so they stay together as they push through the crowds. The fog seems worse here, policemen emerging from the dim with bright orange flares to direct the standstill traffic.The glow of the lights strung up outside Selfridges seem to appear from nowhere, the surrounding fog turning an odd, eerie green glow. 

Taylor looks happy when they step inside, her eyes lighting up as she glances around the bright and busy department store. She takes a step away from him, lured away to browse. 

A friendly shop assistant smiles at him, offering to show him a selection of leather gloves. Niall shakes his head, already starting to feel warm in the heat of the crowded cosmetic hall. 

The counters are shiny and sleek, all decked out in tinsel and bright red baubles. It looks so much more extravagant and special compared to their ruined paper decorations at home. 

Taylor stops beside a counter littered with cosmetic products. There’s lipsticks every shade of red lined up, their lids off so Niall can see the waxy stems, blunt at the end from use. He runs one across the back of his hand, stares at how stark it stands out against his skin. 

He wants to buy Taylor something special, something beautiful. She chats casually with the salesperson as she looks through the entire range. Niall places the gold tube back on the display and wanders through the extravagant hall. There’s a woman selling fur, soft and luxurious. Silk scarves hang over banisters, glinting cigarette boxes line tables, men are picking up embossed notebooks and soft leather purses.

Niall wonders where they’ve got the money from. Men in slick suits, shiny mahogany handles of umbrellas under their arms and a list of presents to buy. Women, demure in hats, gloves and pearls. Children in brand new coats and brand new socks and brand new shoes trailing behind them, sticky lollipop in hand. 

He pauses at a display of jewelry, the stones glinting in the overhead lights through the glass. Everything is bright and gold. Delicate and gaudy, fine and laden with jewels all in the same display. There’s a man standing watch over red velvet trays, rings and brooches standing out proud. 

He runs his finger over a pair of earrings, the metal cool against his fingertips. 

They’re beautiful, bright emerald stones that shine. He could see them on Taylor now, hanging just underneath her hair. When she’d turn her head, they’d catch the light and glitter. 

They’re too expensive though. Taylor wanted to get Saoirse a bicycle this year, so Niall’s been saving everything he’s got for that. Tucking money into the old tea tin that sits on the mantelpiece. Niall swallows the acidic thought that much of that money is probably sitting in the bar at the Legion. 

He’s holding it before he really realises it, his mind still full of the image of Taylor wearing them. The box feels surprisingly weighty in his palm for all the size of it. He could slip it into his pocket, sneak it up the inside of his shirt sleeve. No one would be any the wiser. 

“Can you I help you sir?” comes a voice, Niall’s hand jerks in shock.

“Just browsing,” Niall says, his voice too tight. The jeweller’s eyes sink down to take in the collar of his work suit, the old coat he’s wearing because he’d gave Harry the warmer one to wear to work. 

Guilt bubbles in his gut. He sets down the earrings and moves on, his head ducked. 

There’s a huge tree in the middle of the department store and for a moment, Niall marvels at how they got it inside. It’s laden heavy with shiny baubles, the glittering golds and bright crimson reds. They’re delicate, spun glass like sugar and glinting in the bright lights. He hasn’t seen a real Christmas tree in a long time, it’s spurs and sprigs smelling wintery and fresh as he steps up to it. 

He runs a finger down the curve of a bauble, feeling how fragile it feels. Maybe he could take one of these? They might not be as heavily sought after as the products on the counters. They might not even notice.

Niall shakes his head, disgusted with himself. 

Taylor’s at the jewellery counter now, smiling politely at the salesman. He’s showing her a tray of something shiny. Niall retraces his steps whilst she’s distracted and considers the lipsticks again, looking at the waxy reds and pinks. 

He picks one that doesn’t look too unpleasant and ducks across the hall for a soft, embossed notebook for Harry before Taylor’s done. She smiles at him quietly when he circles his hand around her wrist and leads her back out into the fog. 

They manage to get a table at the back of a nearby tearoom. There’s none left by the window but it would be no use because of the fog anyway. It’s loud and hot with people and Taylor’s face looks too pink as she leans into him, shuffling close as they share the same side of the bench.

No one bats an eyelash at how close they’re sitting. To them, they’re just two strangers who are allowed to sit side by side for tea, allowed to share a cigarette, allowed to hold hands as they squeeze down Oxford Street towards the shops. 

Allowed to be in love.

“It’s been so long since we’ve done this,” she says to him, her voice just loud enough to carry over the din. Niall wonders if she’s thinking the same as him. He shuffles closer, lifts an arm so she can fit under it. 

She smiles into the rim of her teacup, the imprint of her lipstick smudged on the china. 

“Just us?” Niall murmurs to her. 

Taylor’s shoulders tense for a moment before she leans forward, using the edge of her fork to split the cake on the plate in two. She nudges a piece to the edge of the plate closest to Niall and Niall laughs, picking it up between two fingers. 

“Just us is nice sometimes,” she says, her eyes sliding away guiltily. Niall presses his lips to her temple, feeling reckless with the amount of people around them. 

“Harry --” she starts, her eyes flickering down to look at her fidgeting fingers. “Is he okay?”

Niall sighs, his good mood ebbing away. He leans back in his seat and Taylor edges away slightly, her fingers trembling as she picks up the tea cup again. 

“He’s lost his job.”

The teacup lands in the saucer with a clatter, milky tea sloshing out over the side. Niall always thinks she takes too much. Taylor jumps to mop it up with the napkin in her lap, her cheeks going scarlet. 

“It’ll be fine,” Niall tells her, reaching to help her. “Taylor. Hey, Taylor.”

Taylor blinks, her eyes going glassy and Niall runs his hand over her shoulder. “It’s okay. We’ll be fine. We just need to tighten our belts.”

Niall swallows around the words in his throat. They’ll have to tighten their belts quite a bit. He isn’t sure how they can manage on just his wage. Taylor’s gigs are becoming more sporadic now that there’s less troops to entertain. The Christmas presents feel heavy in his coat pocket. Niall takes a sip of his lukewarm tea and tries not to grimace. 

Taylor glances up at him, tears welling in her eyes. “Can we go?”

“Hey,” Niall says, reaching to hug her again. “We’ll be fine, you don’t have to worry.”

Taylor shakes her head and her fingers tremble as she reaches up to brush at one of her eyes. “Can we go. Please,” she begs quietly. “Niall.”

Niall looks down at the tier of sandwiches they haven’t touched, the teapot still half full between them. 

“We need to get back before Saoirse’s home from school,” she makes an excuse, reaching for her hat. She looks a little sweaty, her head ducked so the people in the next tables can’t see her start to cry. 

Niall frowns. Harry will be home this afternoon, Niall’s sure of it. And if he isn’t, Mrs Harkinson will look after her if they’re late. “Taylor.”

“Please,” Taylor implores, her hand reaching out to clutch at his elbow. 

“Of course,” Niall feels himself agreeing, standing up. Taylor looks relieved, her gloved hand coming up to press at her mouth. Her lipstick has worn completely away, only a lingering thin line of red in the cracks of her lips. The rest of her make-up looks slightly chalky on her face, her skin underneath pink and flushed. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Niall asks, reaching out to steady her. 

She nods, her shoulders rigid. “I’ll be fine.”

The hostess wishes them a happy Christmas as they leave but Taylor doesn’t acknowledge it, pushing her way out onto the street. It’s not much better out here, the streets still packed with shoppers. 

Niall reaches for Taylor’s hand, pulling her close to his side as he leads the way towards the tube station. She’s properly crying by the time they’re there, Niall keeping a hand on her shoulder as they join the crowds leading down to the platform. 

It’s sickly warm with people, everyone in thick warm coats and hats. There’s a din of white noise as they descend deeper, a few people talking loudly to each other, the rustle of newspapers, the click of shoes as they spread out across the platform. 

Somewhere deep in the bowels of the tunnel, a train is coming. 

Niall shuffles them through the crowd, pressing on to get to a quieter end of the platform. A few people give them odd looks and finally, Taylor turns to him when they stop so Niall can see her tear-streaked face. 

There’s a woosh of the train, warm air hurtling around them. Niall swallows against it, air blowing in his face. 

The tail of his scarf lifts, Taylor’s eyes the red mark under his jaw. 

“I’m pregnant.”


End file.
